University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


THEIR  BOOK 


Of  this  book  there  were  but  fifty  copies 

printed,  during  the  summer  of  190J, 

for  private  circulation. 

This  copy  is  No*_ZjP 


Arthur  ^Davison  Ficke 

and 

Thomas  Newell  Metcalf 


T  your  peril,  take  this  book  seriously. 
It  was  written  in  an  idle  hour  by  two 
idle  fellows  with  no  object  but  their 
own  amusement.  So  if  it  amuses 
anyone  else,  it  does  more  than  it  was 
ever  meant  to  do. 


the  joy  of  living ! 

To  lie  in  the  shade 
Beneath  the  greening  trees  that  sleep, 

Drinking  the  light  the  sun  is  giving 
And  look  up  into  the  clear  cool  deep 
Where  the  castled  clouds  my  dreams  have  made 

Pile  high  their  snowy  silver  heaps 
And  there  to  float  till  I  grow  afraid 
Of  the  silent  beauty  that  yonder  sleeps. 


HIS  is  the  bedbug  amiable, 

With  hair  like  new-mown  peas, 
He  lives  on  cheese  and  cabbages 
And  cabbages  and  cheese. 


is  the  frowsy-headed  man 
Of  Ethiopian  hue. 
He  wears  a  bath  robe  scarlet  bright 
And  underwear  of  blue. 


HIS  lady  with  the  snaggle  teeth 

Is  Katherine  the  Fair, 
Who  o'er  the  festive  griddle  cakes 
Strews  strands  of  auburn  hair. 


thought  I  saw  a  Turkish  bath 

Upon  my  horse's  tall. 
I  looked  again  and  saw  it  was 

A  brace  of  hard  boiled  quail* 
— You'd  better  turn  your  collar  up, 

Your  teeth  are  getting  pale* 


D  like  to  be  a  mucker 
And  with  the  muckers  stand, 
A  grin  upon  my  grimy  face, 
A  penny  in  my  hand* 


LY  climbed  a  mountain  top, 
Stood  upon  the>  dizzy  brink, 
Tumbled  down  with  one  big  flop. 
Awful  silly,  don't  you  think  ? 


TRIOLET. 

[  p  JIREFLIES  flit  through  the  night, 

Now  they  glow  near  and  now  far; 
Strewing  the  dusk  with  their  light, 
Fireflies  flit  through  the  night. 
Vanishing  moments  of  bright 
Over  the  meadow  afar; 
Fireflies  flit  through  the  night — 
Wings  and  the  soul  of  a  star. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  ELEANOR. 
I. 

soft-eyed  golden  Eleanor, 
My  ship  is  on  the  tide 
And  I  can  now  no  longer  stay 
Where  most  I  wish  to  bide. 

The  anchor  's  up — I  must  away 
Upon  the  windy  main 
And  long,  O  long  I  fear  'twill  be 
Ere  I  come  back  again. 

But  as  I  ride  the  rocking  swell 
Out  in  the  stormy  blue 
Will  you  not  let  me,  Eleanor, 
Call  you  my  sweetheart  true? 


And  as  I  sail  the  lonely  sea 
Of  scattered  fringing  foam 
May  I  not  think  there  is  a  heart 
That  beats  for  me  at  home  ?" 

The  slender,  soft-eyed  Eleanor 
Stands  silent  in  the  sun, 
Like  to  a  lily  with  a  crown 
Of  golden  glory  spun* 

With  eyes  cast  down  and  shadowed  brow 
In  silence  long  she  stands 
And  sorrowfully  shakes  her  head 
And  hides  it  in  her  hands* 


Down  through  the  narrow  cobbled  street 
That  winds  up  to  the  hill, 
Where  bloom  the  quiet  hollyhocks 
And  beds  of  daffodill, 

The  master  of  the  "Sea  Gull"  moves 
With  eyes  cast  down  and  dim, 
With  heavy  step  and  heavy  heart 
And  gloom  enfolding  him* 

IL 

The  sun  is  rising  joyfully, 

The  wind  is  blowing  free 

And  out  upon  the  world's  blue  edge 

A  white  sail  dots  the  sea. 


ffl. 

Throughout  the  quiet  fishing  town 
A  rumor  wild  has  spread— 
"They  say  the  'Sea  Gull'  sank  last  night 
And  all  her  crew  are  dead. 

The  storm  last  night  swept  down  on  them 
With  lurid  lightning  breath 
And  made  the  waves  like  maddened  steeds 
That  dragged  them  down  to  death. 

And  never  from  the  hungry  deep, 
Across  the  sunlit  main, 
Will  they  come  back  to  sit  beside 
Their  cheerful  hearths  again." 


IV. 

Upon  the  hill  behind  the  town, 
More  pale  than  e'er  of  yore, 
With  trembling  lips  and  tearful  eyes 
Stands  golden  Eleanor. 

"It  cannot  be!  It  cannot  be! 
I  know  that  he  will  come 
To  let  me  tell  him  of  my  love 
And  claim  me  as  his  own. 

0  God,  thou  art  too  merciful 
To  give  him  to  the  foam. 

Come  back,  my  love,  my  life  of  life — 

1  wait  your  coming  home/' 


But  from  the  calm  and  placid  deep 
The  wind  blows  soft  and  free 
And  out  unto  the  world's  blue  edge 
Stretches  the  silent  sea* 


THE  WEST  WIND. 

In  twilight  soft  the  West  Wind  came 
From  out  his  purple-shadowed  grove 
Where  sank  the  sunset's  dying  flame 
And  on  a  quest  without  a  name — 
An  aimless,  wanton,  wandering  quest, 
Throughout  the  trees  did  move. 

He  came  unto  a  garden-keep 
All  shaded  round  by  solemn  trees 
Where  leaned  a  maid  in  slumber  deep 
And  from  the  misty  vales  of  sleep 
He  woke  her  with  a  kiss  as  sweet 
As  unheard  melodies. 


The  maiden  woke  from  slumbering 
Leaving  the  mist  of  dreams  behind 
And  felt,  like  breath  of  blossomed  Spring 
Or  some  soft  sweet  remembering 
Brought  back  from  old  and  happy  days, 
The  kiss  of  the  West  Wind. 

And  as  she  ope'd  her  arms  to  fold 

This  wafture  of  the  Summer  sky, 

She  saw  above  the  silver  stars 

Shine  through  the  branches'  swaying  bars 

And  heard  the  footsteps  of  the  Wind 

Go  rushing  by. 


AT  SUNSET 

HNCE  upon  a  time  there  lived  a  little  Poet*  He 
lived  by  himself  way  up  in  a  garret*  Now 
the  garret  was  cold  as  cold  in  Winter  and  the  snow 
used  to  drift  in  through  the  ill-made  windows  and 
through  a  crevice  in  the  weather-worn  roof.  But 
The  Little  Poet  lived  through  the  Winter  by  dreaming 
of  the  Spring  to  come;  and  in  the  Spring  he  left  the 
windows  open  wide  and  for  nothing  would  he  have 
stopped  up  the  crevice,  for  there  was  a  star  which 
peeped  through  at  him  and  sang  him  to  sleep  night 
after  night  with  its  soft  silvery  voice.  From  one 
window  of  the  garret  he  could  see  the  many  red-tiled 
roofs  of  the  city  which  stretched  for  miles  and  miles 
down  to  the  great  purple  sea.  And  from  the  other 


window  he  could  look  down  on  the  somber  gardens 
which  skirted  the  Palace  of  The  Great  Princess. 
Very  beautiful  they  were  in  the  Springtime,  when 
the  year  was  young  and  the  grass  was  green  and 
the  flowers  were  budding.  Then  it  was  that  the  trees 
were  all  abloom;  and  to  The  Little  Poet,  who  used 
to  sit  by  the  window  and  build  air  castles,  it  seemed 
as  if  the  world  was  a  great  garden  of  beautiful  many- 
petaled  pink-and-white  flowers*  And  sometimes  of  an 
afternoon  he  could  see  The  Great  Princess  walking 
in  the  garden  with  her  ladies.  And  which  was  the 
Princess  he  could  not  for  the  life  of  him  tell.  But 
there  was  one  among  them  as  tall  and  straight  as  a 
lily,  with  wonderful  tawny  hair,  whom  The  Little 
Poet  loved.  Only  he  did  not  know  he  loved  her,  for 
he  knew  so  little  of  the  world. 


Many  a  time  did  he  sit  by  the  window  and 
dream  and  dream  and  watch  the  great  red  sun  slowly 
climb  down  in  the  western  sky,  pouring  a  blood-red 
sea  of  light  over  the  world.  And  once  when  the 
violet  twilight  was  covering  the  great  city  there  came 
to  The  Little  Poet  a  little  Poem,  and  sang  and  sang 
to  him.  All  night  long  he  listened  to  the  music  of 
the  poem;  all  the  next  day  and  the  next,  and  on  and 
on  until  he  forgot  about  the  glorious  sinking  sun, 
forgot  about  the  singing  star  and  The  Lady  of  the 
Lilies.  He  thought  how  soft  and  sweet  the  Poem 
and  cherished  it  and  let  no  one  see  it. 

One  day  The  Little  Poet  was  all  for  taking  a 
jaunt  out  into  the  wide  green  world.  So  he  took 
his  hat  and  staff  from  the  peg  behind  the  door,  and 
with  The  Little  Poem  went  down  the  rickety  stairs, 


out  through  the  narrow  city  streets  and  into  the  free 
green  country — where  the  world  was  younger  than 
in  the  city  and  where  the  shepherds  piped  and  the 
peasants  danced  and  even  the  sun  joined  in  the 
merrymaking.  And  many  a  day  did  The  Little 
Poet  and  The  Little  Poem  travel  together.  All  the 
while  they  sang;  and  ever  greener  the  earth,  ever 
sweeter  the  flowers,  and  the  birds  the  blither. 

One  night  they  came  to  a  tavern  where  they 
had  a  mind  to  sup.  So  in  they  went  and  asked  the 
Landlord,  had  he  a  room  where  they  might  sup 
alone.  Now  being  out  under  God's  own  heaven  for 
many  days  and  sleeping  in  Mother  Nature's  lap 
for  as  many  nights  makes  one  look  no  better  than 
one  should.  And  this  was  the  case  with  The  Little 
Poet.  Prut,  said  the  Landlord,  did  The  Little  Poet 


think  he  had  private  rooms  for  such  as  he?  If  he 
wasn't  satisfied  with  the  common  room  he  might  go 
out  and  spend  another  night  with  the  stars  and  winds. 
But  when  he  saw  The  Little  Poem,  the  Landlord 
changed  his  tune,  for  he  had  a  soft  enough  heart  after 
all,  and  knew  that  The  Little  Poem  was  not  for  such 
as  yokels  and  clods.  Nevertheless  he  had  no  private 
room  unoccupied;  but  there  was  one  in  which  there 
were  but  two  gentlemen,  both  pliers  of  the  pen,  who 
would  undoubtedly  receive  The  Little  Poet  and  his 
Poem  with  pleasure.  So  in  they  went  and  sat  them 
down  to  sup. 

After  the  meal  was  ended  and  the  glasses  filled, 
The  Little  Poem  sang  to  pleasure  the  strangers. 
But  when  the  song  was  done,  how  those  two  men 
went  at  the  Poem — such  things  as  they  said — how 


they  laughed  and  jeered.  Nor  a  whit  did  they  care 
for  the  heart  pain  and  aching  of  The  Little  Poet  nor 
for  the  bruises  and  slashes  that  they  gave  The  Little 
Poem.  At  last  The  Little  Poet  could  stand  their 
abuse  no  longer,  so  clasping  The  Little  Poem,  all 
bruised  and  broken,  he  ran  out  into  the  calm  night, 
and  ran  and  ran  until  the  tavern  and  the  critics  were 
far  behind. 

Then  for  many  days  the  two  went  near  no 
tavern,  but  wandered  up  and  down  in  the  world, 
singing  to  the  countryside  and  making  every  one  the 
happier  for  it.  They  were  wont  to  stop  at  the 
cottages  along  the  road-side  to  beg  for  a  crust  and  a 
place  to  sleep,  and  never  a  soul  refused  them  food  or 
shelter. 

Early  one  scarlet  Autumn  morning  The  Little 


Poet  and  The  Little  Poem  knocked  at  the  gate  of  a 
cottage  and  asked  for  a  cup  of  milk  and  a  crust  of 
bread  to  help  them  along  the  highroad  of  the  day. 
From  the  house  there  came  a  woman,  tall  and  slender 
with  hands  white  and  thin;  and  her  hair  was  long 
and  creamy,  like  spun  flax;  her  eyes  mild  and  soft 
like  violets  half  hidden  'neath  darksome  leaves,  and 
her  face  as  pale  as  silver.  When  she  saw  the  Poem 
she  called  to  one  within,  and  there  came  out  a  second 
woman  as  much  like  the  first  as  one  lily  is  like 
another.  And  the  two  women  came  slowly  down 
the  path  and  with  fondlings  and  pettings,  such  as  are 
given  to  little  children,  led  the  Poem  ihto  the  cottage, 
leaving  the  Poet  bewildered,  to  follow  by  himself. 
All  day  the  two  stayed  with  the  women;  but  little 
enough  attention  did  The  Little  Poet  get.  For  they, 


with  lovelorn  sighs  and  glances,  with  yearning  words 
and  murmurs,  paid  homage  to  the  Poem.  From 
crimson  dawn  to  purple  dusk  the  Poem  sang  on  and 
into  the  shadowless  night,  until  the  women  fell  asleep 
from  the  music  and  The  Little  Poem  had  almost 
sung  its  heart  out.  Then  the  wondering  Poet  arose 
and  with  his  Poem  stole  softly  from  the  house  of 
those  who  had  almost  killed  it. 

All  Autumn  long  the  two  wandered  on,  over 
leaf-strewn  hill  and  dale,  and  near  no  cottage  nor 
tavern  did  they  go,  but  lived  from  the  bounty  of  the 
woods  and  of  the  fields  and  of  many  a  shepherd 
spending  a  weary  life  on  the  downs.  One  night  in 
dark  November,  when  they  had  at  last  turned  their 
footsteps  homeward,  the  two  found  themselves  out 
on  a  lonely  heath  and  not  a  sign  of  shelter  could  they 


see  anywhere.  The  cold  wind  howled  across  the 
moor,  all  but  drowning  the  music  of  The  Little  Poem. 
But  after  a  while  they  saw  a  light  burning  bright  in 
the  dark,  and  toward  this  they  turned,  and  at  last 
came  to  a  tavern  set  all  by  itself  out  in  the  middle  of 
a  lonely  heath.  The  wind  was  howling  loud  without 
and  the  night  was  bleak,  but  within  all  was  alive  and 
warm.  Those  within  made  room  for  the  two  way- 
farers and  after  a  warm  corner  by  the  hearth  had 
been  given  them  and  the  wine  had  gone  its  round, 
The  Little  Poem  began  to  sing — and  never  such  music 
had  been  heard  within  that  tavern  before. 

Now  it  happened  that  in  the  next  room  was  a 
Great  Poet  who  was  making  a  journey  and  he  was 
at  dinner  when  The  Little  Poem  began  to  sing. 
When  he  heard  the  singing,  nothing  would  do  but 


that  The  Little  Poet  and  The  Little  Poem  should 
come  into  the  room  and  sing  to  him.  So  in  the  two 
went,  and  a  very  pleasant  evening  they  had  of  it. 
But  The  Great  Poet  was  covetous  of  The  Little 
Poem,  and  when  The  Little  Poet  was  not  looking, 
he  dropped  a  drug  in  the  wine;  and  the  poor  Little 
Poet  forgot  the  world,  forgot  the  Poem,  forgot  every- 
thing and  fell  asleep. 

The  next  morning  he  found  himself  lying  out 
on  the  heath  alone.  The  Little  Poem  was  gone. 
Back  he  hurried  to  the  tavern  and  learned  that  The 
Great  Poet  had  left  and  taken  The  Little  Poem  with 
him.  Nothing  was  for  The  Little  Poet  but  to  follow 
the  thief,  and  wearily  he  hurried  along  after  him. 

Bye  and  bye  he  came  to  a  great  city  where 
everyone  sang  the  praises  of  The  Great  Poet  and  his 


wonderful  Poem.  Then  he  learned  that  The  Great 
Poet  had  gone  across  The  Purple  Sea,  far  across  to 
The  Land  of  the  Silver  Mountains.  And  The  Little 
Poet  crossed  The  Purple  Sea  too  and  climbed  up 
and  down  the  Mountains,  all  the  while  hearing  the 
praises  of  The  Great  Poet  and  his  stolen  Poem,  but 
never  seeing  or  hearing  either.  Time  flew  on  and 
The  Little  Poet  heard  less  and  less  of  the  Poem. 
Day  by  day  he  met  fewer  people  who  knew  it,  and 
finally  a  day  went  by  and  he  met  no  one  who 
remembered  it;  and  the  same  the  next  day  and  the 
next,  and  always.  And  then  it  came  to  The  Little 
Poet  that  he  was  an  old  man  and  he  bethought  him 
that  he  would  go  back  to  his  garret  by  the  Garden  of 
The  Great  Princess.  For  his  little  Poem  was  lost 
forever  and  he  might  as  well  be  as  happy  as  he  could 


with  the  beautiful  garden  and  the  beautiful  sunset. 

So  one  day  in  the  Spring,  when  the  world  was 
all  aflower  again,  the  weary  Little  Poet  climbed  the 
rickety  stairs  and  sat  down  by  the  window  which 
looked  out  on  the  garden,  and  dreamed.  No  air 
castles  now,  only  half  forgotten  memories.  Out  from 
the  Palace  into  the  Garden  came  an  old  woman, 
straight  and  tall  for  one  with  her  weight  of  years, 
with  hair  of  faded  gold.  And  The  Little  Poet  knew 
it  was  his  Lady  of  the  Lilies.  As  he  sat  there,  from 
the  garden  came  floating  to  him  soft  sad  music — so 
sweet  and  so  familiar  to  him. 

It  was  his  Poem. 

The  Lady  of  the  Lilies  and  The  Little  Poem 
were  together.  She  alone  of  all  the  world  loved  and 


cherished  it.    And  the  little  old  Poet's  wrinkled  face 
was  wet  with  tears. 


TWILIGHT  SONG. 

glow  in  the  west  o'er  the  hilltops  is  dying; 
The  night  wind  is  rising  and  sinking  and  sighing. 
My  thoughts  are  of  longing  too  sweet  to  be  pain 
And  a  fullness  of  joy  comes  again  and  again 
To  surge  in  my  heart  and  to  sink  in  the  stream 
Of  its  own  flood  of  happiness — all  like  a  dream. 
Is  it  thou  that  art  calling, 
My  sweetheart,  to  me? 

I  hear  thee,  I  hear  thee,  my  love,  and  am  coming 
To  press  in  the  gloaming  thy  hands  in  mine  own, 
Where  the  night  winds  are  roaming,  are  roaming  alone ; 
Where  the  river  is  lapping 
And  shadows  are  falling; 
Is  it  thou  that  art  calling, 
My  sweetheart,  to  me? 


35-,, 

T4- 


